Hurrying slaves thronged the corridors, keeping near the walls to leave the center free for strolling lords and ladies, of which there were some few in richly embroidered velvets and satins, hung about with gold chains and emeralds and rubies on necks and wrists and waists. Nobles gave the warrior pair curious looks, men haughtily disdainful, women thoughtful.
Hordo eyed them all suspiciously, then dropped his voice and leaned closer to Conan as they walked. “Mayhap you took time last night to reconsider what occurred yesterday. Even now Garian’s torturers may be heating their irons. Let us to horse and away while we can.”
“Cease this foolish prattle,” Conan laughed. “Not two glasses ago I exercised at swords with Garian, and he said no ill word to me. In fact, he laughed often, except when his head was thumped.”
The one-eyed man’s stride faltered. “Cimmerian, you didn’t … . Mitra! You do not crack the pate of a king!”
“I cracked no pate, Hordo. Garian’s foot slipped on leaves blown by the breeze, and he struck his face with his own hilt in falling. A bruise, no more.”
“What men like you and me account a bruise,” Hordo said, raising a finger like one of the philosophers at the Thestis, “Kings account a mortal insult to dignity.”
“I fear you are right,” Conan sighed. “You do grow old.”
“I am too,” Hordo began, and snapped his mouth shut with a glare as he realized what the big Cimmerian had said.
Conan suppressed the laughter that wanted to escape at the look on the bearded man’s face. Hordo might call himself old, but he was very ready to thump anyone else who named him so. Then the Cimmerian’s mirth faded.
They had come on a courtyard in which a score of the Golden Leopards stood in a large circle about Vegentius, all including the Commander stripped to the waist. A small knot of nobles stood discreetly within an arcade on the far side, watching. Apart from them, but also among those columns so she should not seem to watch, was Sularia.
Vegentius turned within the circle, arms flexing over his head. “Who will be next?” he called to the men around him. “I’ve not worked up a sweat as yet.” His bare chest was deep, his shoulders broad and covered with thick muscle. “Am I to get no exercise? You, Oaxis.”
A man stepped forward, dropping into a crouch. As tall as Vegentius, he was not so heavily muscled, though no stripling. Vegentius laughed, crouching and circling. Oaxis circled with him, but not laughing.
Abruptly they rushed together, grappling, feet shuffling for position and leverage. Conan could see that the slighter man had knowledge, and agility. Even as the Cimmerian thought, Oaxis slipped an arm free, his fist streaking for Vegentius’ corded stomach. Perhaps he remembered who it was he struck, for at the last instant the blow slowed, the impact bringing not even a grunt from the grinning Vegentius.
The bigger man was under no such restraints. His free hand axed into the side of Oaxis’ neck with a sound like stone striking wood. Oaxis staggered and sagged, but Vegentius held him up yet a moment. Twice his fist rose and fell, clubbing the back of the other’s neck. The first time Oaxis jerked, the second he hung limp. Vegentius released him to crumple in a heap on the flagstones.
“Who comes next?” the huge Commander of the Golden Leopards roared. “Is there none among you to give me a struggle?”
Two of the bare-chested soldiers ran out to drag their companion away. None of them seemed anxious to feel Vegentius’ power. The big man continued turning, smiling his taunting smile, until he found himself facing Conan. There he stopped, his smile becoming grim.
“You, barbar. Will you try a fall, or has that northern cold frozen all the guts out of you?”
Conan’s face tightened. He became aware of Sularia’s gaze on him. The arrogance of a prideful man under the eyes of a beautiful woman spurred him. Unfastening his swordbelt, he handed it to Hordo. A murmur rose among the nobles; wagers began to be made.
“You’ve more courage than sense,” the one-eyed man grumbled. “What gain you, an you defeat him, except a powerful enemy?”
“He is my enemy already,” Conan replied, and added with a laugh, “One of them, at least.”
The Cimmerian pulled his tunic over his head and, dropping it to the ground, approached the circle of men. The nobles measured the breadth of his shoulders, and the odds changed. Vegentius, sure that the barbarian’s laughter had held some slur against him, waited with a snarl on his face. The soldiers moved back, widening the circle as Conan entered.
Abruptly Vegentius charged, arms outstretched to crush and destroy. Conan’s massive fist slammed into the side of his head, jarring him to a halt. Crouching slightly, the Cimmerian dug his other fist under the big soldier’s ribs, driving breath from him. Before Vegentius could recover Conan seized him by throat and belt, heaving him into the air, swinging the bulk of the man over his head to send him crashing to his back.
Awe grew in the eyes of the watching soldiers. Never had they seen Vegentius taken from his feet before. Among the nobles the odds changed again.
Conan waited, breathing easily, well balanced on his feet, while Vegentius staggered up, shock writ clear on his face. Then rage washed shock away.
“Barbar bastard!” the big soldier howled. “I spit on your mother’s unmarked grave!” And he swung a blow that would have felled any normal man.
But Conan’s face was painted now with rage, too. Eyes like icy, windswept death, too full of fury to allow thought of defense, he took the blow, and it rocked him to his heels. Yet in that same instant his fist splintered teeth in Vegentius’ mouth. For long moments the two huge men stood toe to toe, giving and absorbing blows which would have been enough to destroy an ordinary man.
Then Conan took a step forward. And Vegentius took a step back. Desperation came on the soldier’s face; on Conan’s eyes was the cold glint of destruction. Back the Cimmerian forced the other. Back, fists pounding relentlessly, toward the arcade where an ever-growing crowd of nobles watched, dignity forgotten as they yelled excitedly. Then, with a mighty blow, he sent the brawny man staggering.
Struggling to remain on his feet, Vegentius stumbled back, nobles parting before him until he stopped at last against the wall in the shadows of the arcade. Straining, he pushed himself erect, tottered forward and fell at the edge of the arcade. One leg moved as if some part of his brain still fought to rise, and then he was still.
Cheering soldiers surrounded Conan, unheeding of their fallen Commander. Smiling nobles, men and women alike, rushed forward, trying to touch him diffidently, as they might reach to stroke a tiger.
Conan heard none of their praise. In that brief instant when Vegentius had stood within the shadows of the arcade, he had remembered where he had seen the man before. He pushed free of the adulation and acclaim, gathering his tunic and returning to Hordo.
“Do you remember,” he asked the one-eyed man quietly, “what I told you of first seeing Taras, when I fell through the roof into his secret meeting, and the big man who stood in the shadows?”
Hordo’s eye darted to Vegentius, now being lifted by his soldiers. The nobles were drifting away. “Him?” he said incredulously.
Conan nodded, and the bearded man whistled sourly.
“Cimmerian, I say again that we should ride for Ophir, just as soon as we can assemble the company.”
“No, Hordo.” Conan’s eyes still held the icy grimness of the fight, and his face wore the look of a wolf on the hunt. “We have the enemy’s trail, now. It’s time to attack, not run.”
“Mitra!” Hordo breathed. “An you get me killed with this foolishness, I’ll haunt you. Attack?”
Before Conan could reply, a slave girl appeared, bending knee to the Cimmerian. “I am to bid you to King Garian with all haste.”
The one-eyed man stiffened.
“Be at ease,” Conan told him. “Was it my head the King sought, he’d not send a pretty set of ankles to fetch me.” The slave girl suddenly eyed him with interest.
“I trust no
one,” Hordo grumbled, “until we find out who wants you dead. Or until we leave Nemedia far behind.”
“I’ll tell you when it is time to ride for the border,” Conan laughed. “Lead on, girl.” She darted away, and the Cimmerian followed.
King Garian waited in a room hung with weapons and trophies of the chase, but his mind was not on the hunt. Scrolls and sheets of parchment littered the many tables that dotted the room, and even the floor. As Conan entered, Garian hurled a scroll across the room with a sound of disgust. The bruise on his cheek stood out against the angry flush of his countenance.
“Never ask to be a king, Conan,” were his first words.
Taken aback, Conan could only say, “And why not?”
Garian’s bluff face was a picture of loathing as he swept his arms about to indicate all of the scrolls and parchments. “Think you these are the plans for some grand campaign? Some magnificent ceremony to honor my father’s name and memory? Think you so?”
Conan shook his head. More times than one his life had been altered by the plans and strategies of one king or another, but he had never been party to those plannings. He eyed a parchment, lying almost at his feet. The sheet seemed covered with columns of numbers.
Garian stalked about the room lifting scrolls from tables, hurling them to the floor. “The city drains must be cleared or, so the Physicians’ Guild claims, the miasmas will bring on a plague. It is recommended the ancient passages beneath the Palace be located and filled, to make the Palace more secure. Part of the city wall must be rebuilt. The army’s pay is in arrears. Grain to be bought. Always more grain.” He stopped, scowling at the spreading antlers of a great stag on the wall. “I took that in the wilderness on the Brythunian border. How I wish I were back there now.”
“Can your counselors not deal with those things?” Conan asked.
The King laughed bitterly. “So they could, were it not for the gold. Gold, Conan. I am reduced to grubbing for it like a greedy merchant.”
“The Treasury—”
“—is well nigh bare. The more grain I must buy in Ophir and Aquilonia, the higher the price goes, and I must try to replace an entire crop, with insane brigands burning those wagons that do not travel under army escort and many that do. Already have I ordered some ornaments to be melted, but even an I strip the Palace bare it would be barely enough.”
“What will you do?” Conan asked. Always had he imagined the wealth of kings to be limitless. This was a new thing for him, that a king might have to worry about gold no less than he, if in greater amounts.
“Borrow,” Garian replied. “A number of nobles and merchants have wealth to rival my own. Let them take a hand in preventing our nation from starving.” He rooted among the parchments until he found one folded and sealed with the Dragon Seal of Nemedia. “You will carry this to Lord Cantaro Albanus. He is among the richest men in Nemedia, and so will be among the first to be asked to contribute.” Face hardening, he handed the parchment to Conan and added, “Or be taxed if they will not lend.”
The King motioned for Conan to go, but the big Cimmerian remained where he stood. It was a delicate thing he was about to do, but he was not a man used to delicacy, and he felt an unaccustomed awkwardness. Garian looked at him in obvious surprise that he did not leave.
“How well do you trust Vegentius?” Conan blurted finally.
“Well enough to retain him as Commander of the Royal Bodyguard,” Garian replied. “Why ask such a question?”
Conan took a deep breath and began the tale he had planned on his way to this room. “Since coming here I have thought that I had seen Vegentius before. Today I remembered. I saw him in a tavern in the city in close converse with a man called Taras, one who has been known to say that some other would be better on the throne than you.”
“A serious charge,” Garian said slowly. “Vegentius has served me well, and my father before me for many years. I cannot think he means me harm.”
“You are the king, yet one lesson of kingship I know. A man who wears a crown must be ever wary of others’ ambitions.”
Garian threw back his head and laughed. “A good swordsman you may be, Conan, but you must leave being king to me. I have somewhat more experience with wearing a crown than you. Now go. I would have that message to Lord Albanus quickly.”
Inclining his head, Conan left. He hoped that he had planted some seed of suspicion, yet this fighting with words pleased him not at all. To face an enemy with steel was his way, and he hoped that it came soon.
XVI
When Conan reached the Palace gate, he found Hordo waiting with his horse. And twenty men, among them Machaon and Narus. The Cimmerian looked at Hordo questioningly, and the one-eyed man shrugged.
“I heard you were to carry a message to some lord,” he told Conan. “Mitra! For all you know he could be the other man at that meeting with Taras. Or the one who wants you dead. Or both.”
“You grow as suspicious as an old woman, Hordo,” Conan said as he swung into the saddle.
Vegentius, battered but in full armor and red-crested helmet, appeared suddenly in the gate with half-a-score Golden Leopards at his heels. When his eyes fell on Conan’s mounted men, he stopped, glaring. Abruptly he spun and, angrily pushing through the soldiers, stormed back into the Palace.
“Mayhap I am suspicious,” Hordo said quietly, “but at least I’ve sense enough to remember that some of your enemies have faces we know. Besides, you’ll find the city changed in the last few days.”
As Conan led his twenty into the empty streets, the changes were evident. Here and there a dog with ribs protruding sniffed warily around a corner. Occasionally a man could be seen hurrying down a side street, as if pursued, though no one .else was about. Windows were shuttered and doors were barred; no shop was open nor hawker’s cry heard. A deathly silence hung palpable in the air.
“Soon after we rode to the Palace it began,” Hordo muttered. He looked around and hunched his shoulders uneasily, as if riding among tombs. “First people abandoned the streets to the toughs, the beggars and the trulls. The last two went quickly enough, with none to give or buy, and the bravos had the city to themselves, terrorizing any who dared set foot out of doors. Yesterday, they disappeared too.” He looked at Conan significantly. “All in the space of a glass.”
“As if they had orders?”
The one-eyed man nodded. “Maybe Taras hired armed men after all. Of a sort.”
“But not for the purpose Ariane believed.” The big Cimmerian was silent for a time, staring at the seemingly deserted buildings. “What is the news of her?” he asked finally.
Hordo had no need to ask who he meant. “She’s well. Twice I’ve been to the Thestis; the others look at me as they’d look at a leper come to their dinner. Kerin has taken up with Graecus.”
Conan nodded without speaking, and they rode in silence to the gates of Albanus’ palace. There Conan dismounted, pounding on the barred gate with his fist.
A flap no bigger than a man’s hand opened in it, and a suspicious eye surveyed them. “What do you seek here? Who are you?”
“My name is Conan. Open the gate, man. I bear a message to your master from King Garian himself.”
There was a moment’s whispered conversation on the other side of the gate. Then came the rattle of a bar being drawn, and the gate opened enough for one man to pass.
“You can enter,” the voice from inside called, “but not the others.”
“Conan,” Hordo began.
The Cimmerian quieted him with a gesture. “Rest easy, Hordo. I could not be safer in a woman’s arms.” He slipped through the opening.
As the gate closed behind him with a solid thud, Conan faced four men with drawn swords; another snugged the point of his blade under the Cimmerian’s ribs from the side.
“Now, who are you?” rasped the swordsman who pricked Conan’s tunic.
Wishing he had had sense enough to don his hauberk before leaving the Royal Palace, Conan turned his h
ead enough to make out a narrow face with wide-set eyes and a nose with the tip gone. “I told you.” He reached beneath his tunic, and froze as the sword point dug deeper. “I want only to show you the message. What trouble can I mean with a sword in my ribs?”
To himself, he thought that clip-nose stood too close. The man should never have touched blade to tunic unless he meant to thrust. One quick sweep of the arm would knock that sword aside, then clip-nose could be hurled at his fellow, and … . The big Cimmerian smiled, and the others shifted uneasily, wondering what he found to smile about.
“Let me see this message,” clip-nose demanded.
From beneath his tunic Conan produced the folded parchment. Clip-nose reached, but he moved it beyond the man’s grasp. “You can see the seal from there,” he said. “It’s meant for Lord Albanus, not you.”
“’Tis the Dragon Seal, in truth,” clip-nose muttered. His sword left Conan’s ribs with obvious reluctance. “Follow me, then, and do not stray.”
Conan shook his head as they started up the stone walk toward the palace proper, a massive structure of fluted columns, with a great gilded dome that hurled back the sun. Suspicion on the guards’ part had been warranted, given the state of the city, but the surliness should have faded when they learned he was a Royal Messenger. That it had not spoke ill for Garian’s plans. Often men absorbed the attitudes of their master without either man or master realizing.
In the many-columned entry hall, clip-nose conferred, well out of Conan’s hearing, with a gray-bearded man whose tunic was emblazoned with Lord Albanus’ house-mark backed by a great key. Clip-nose left, returning to his post at the gate, and the gray-bearded man approached Conan.
“I am Lord Albanus’ chamberlain,” he said, giving neither name nor courtesy. “Give me the message.”
“I will place it in Lord Albanus’ hands,” Conan replied flatly.
He had no real reason not to give it to the chamberlain, for such a one was his master’s agent in all things, yet he was irked. A messenger from the King should have been given chilled wine and damp towels to take the dust of the street from him.
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